


River

by dustywings



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustywings/pseuds/dustywings
Summary: ‘I need to tell you,’ she stammers, ‘That if we–’ she cuts short when Historia kisses the corner of her lips, '–do this, I’ll fall apart.’





	River

Prisoners rarely get away. The government enjoys the death sentence. Allegedly, carrying it through promises less crime, less traitors, less bother. In other words, it’s bullshit. Everybody commits crime. Only the rules specify which crimes are worth losing life over. And the rules are just on paper. If she wanted, the Queen could scrunch these rules into a tight ball, and burn them.

They have been walking for a while now. She has forgotten how big the Wall is. It’s too big, it’s too much fuss. It’s pointless, now she is all too aware that the real enemy has belonged within these Walls the whole time. Titans have never particularly frightened her when she was a teenager. As an adult, who is forced to carry a jewel on her head for the remainder of her days, Titans are the least bit worrisome.

Military Police watch from below. _Stare_. She knows what they’re saying to each other, the scowls they share, the amount of confusion and anger they must feel towards their _fucked_ Royal Highness. Yet, in their own sadistic, sad manner, they worship her, and they don’t _dare_ ask what she’s playing at. They bow as she walks by. They accept her divinity and rightfulness to the Throne.

And they hate the creature which follows.

Only yesterday did Historia give permission for Ymir’s handcuffs to be removed.

The bruises still haven’t healed.

Historia likes it on top of the wall – on top of the world. She likes it when the breeze ruffles through her long hair. She likes it when it’s too chilly, and her body has to shudder. She likes it when she knows she only has to make one mistake, and she’ll fall to her death. That is how easy it is to murder a Queen. Somebody with incredible, unquestionable power. 

So fucking _mortal_. 

Ymir watches, silent as the grave. 

‘Are you all right?’

It is a relief to hear that question. Ymir smiles, or tries to anyway. ‘Sure.’

Historia looks at her from the corner of her eye. The last time she saw this woman, they had seemed so much younger. Almost like infants. Running through a forest. Chasing each other. 

‘We need to sort you out.’

Ymir blinks. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I can’t have you wandering behind my Walls looking like _this_.’ Historia comes forward, expression hard, eyes like steel, and Ymir doesn’t know whether to feel afraid or not. The Queen pulls lightly at Ymir’s old shirt. ‘This has to go. No one will take you seriously otherwise. And–’ she reaches for her face, ‘–the dirt.’ She brushes her fingertips across Ymir’s cheeks. ‘That doesn’t suit you.’ Except, as much as it kills her, it _does_ suit Ymir. 

Dirt, blood, sleeping on the streets. It’s all she’s ever known. 

‘This as well.’ Historia drags a hand through Ymir’s hair, and she can hear her breath catch. Affectionately, Historia works her fingers around a few strands. Then, she tugs gently. 

‘You want me to get rid of my hair?’

‘No, but you need something done to it, otherwise people will think I’m not taking care of you.’

‘Do you really think _they_ care?’

Historia sighs. Lowers her hand. She’s quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time, eyes distant. She isn’t looking at Ymir anymore. Her gaze is focussed on the ground, one hundred feet below them. ‘I don’t think they think at all,’ she murmurs softly. A shudder makes her buckle, and it’s not from the cold.

‘Oh.’ Ymir isn’t confident enough to decide what to do with that information. She glances at the space between them. Then, focusses on Historia. She’s cut her hair. Tied it back into a neat bun, and she wears normal clothes. Which is a bizarre prospect. Historia dresses herself like a civilian. Cotton, handmade material. The sort of attire she used to wear as an unwanted baby. ‘Why are we up here?’

Historia meets her eyes.

‘Are you afraid?’

Ymir hates to be read this easily. ‘I–’ she pauses. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

At that, Ymir exhales slowly, as if relieved. As if she _did_ genuinely believe Historia might kill her. Throw her from the Wall, and watch her fall. ‘Fair enough. You brought me up here for the view?’

Historia smiles. ‘I feel safe up here. It’s one of few places where we’re allowed to be truly alone,’ and Historia feels a kind of exhaustion rolling over her, relief washing in with the mix. Because they are alone up here, without orders, without weapons, without anybody breathing down their necks. It is the one place where nobody will try to _kill_ them–and she sighs, a small cry passing her lips, her shoulders dropping.

‘Are _you_ afraid?’

‘No,’ Historia inhales sharply. She won’t dare look at Ymir now. She can only imagine her expression, witnessing Historia this way. ‘No–you don’t get to ask me that question, Ymir.’

‘What?’ Ymir’s words slip. She panics. ‘Uh, Kris–Historia?’ Wisely, Ymir pauses, just to catch her breath, just to figure out what she’s trying to say. She can’t help herself. She reaches out for her, tugging slightly at Historia’s blouse. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be this way, but–’

‘Don’t you _fucking_ say you’re sorry!’

Historia is like thunder. Crashing bolts of lightning, fierce and wild. Ymir goes completely still, like ice, like a statue, like a woman paralysed, rooted to the earth. 

‘It’s not _you_ who has to be sorry. _I’m_ sorry. There are so many _people_ who should be _sorry_ for what has happened, but you–’ Historia gasps, roughly wiping her eyes. She’s so impatient with herself, she manages to nick her skin. ‘Not you.’ Then, a thought catches her off guard, and she turns to her again, angry and heartbroken: ‘Wait, you _should_ be sorry! You have every _fucking_ reason to be sorry, but not about this, not about–you _know_ what you should be sorry for.’

‘I know. I do know,’ Ymir whispers.

‘Good. Thank _God_.’ Historia takes a step back. Ymir releases her. ‘ _Good_.’ She drags her hands through her hair, inhaling deeply into her lungs. Desperate to breathe again. Desperate to calm down. ‘Because what you did–’ she faces her, eyes wide, and voice breaking, ‘–what you _did_ to me was so unforgivable! I can’t–Ymir, I can’t let it go. I can’t let _you_ go like that.’

Ymir is shaking, and hopes it doesn’t show.

Everything Historia throws at her, she bloody well deserves, and she’ll take it.

Any abuse, she’ll fucking take it.

But: ‘I did what I did for you.’

‘Stop. _Don’t_.’

‘I know it was a mistake. But, I suddenly realised there was a _chance_ for you behind the Wall. I was not only wanted behind the Wall, but also beyond it. Everywhere I turn, people hate me. So, I just–’ she growls in frustration, ‘It’s stupid, but I thought if I left you, if I gave you the opportunity to be who you really are, without my problems hindering you, then, maybe, maybe then you would be okay. Because protecting you, and keeping you safe – that’s all I cared about.’

‘Ymir.’ Historia scrunches her eyes shut. Tears squeeze out, trickling down her cheeks, and Ymir is _shook_. She’s about to step over, close the gap between them, but Historia places out her hand, barring her. ‘Did you not think–Were you not aware of what could have happened? What _we_ could have been if you stayed?’

‘Married.’

The word assaults her. Historia swallows, struggling to regain her composure.

‘Yeah,’ she breathes.

The silence is deafening. They’ve said what they can; what they can manage without breaking apart. Historia turns away, needing a moment. She needs a moment, because she’s Queen, and a Queen doesn’t show emotion or anything of the sort. No commoner can witness her tear at the seams. 

Ymir waits patiently, like a punished child. 

Afterwards, Historia walks past her, saying: ‘I set you free. Nobody will come after you. I promise.’

These are the words she has wanted to hear her entire life.

Except now, they’re the very _last_ she wishes. Ymir stutters, devastated to watch Historia retreat. 

Until she hears her call out: ‘Are you coming with me?’

**.**

**.**

**.**

The uniform doesn’t feel right. Ymir tugs and pulls at the shirt. She hates the collar. Loathes the wings sewn into the back. They’re a _weight_ on her spine; axes, digging into her skin. Sometimes, when she walks, she swears it is blood dripping down her back. The 3D Manoeuvre Gear is heavy enough to break her hip.

It isn’t duty. And they most _certainly_ did not welcome her back into the military because she’s _efficient_. This is a command from the Queen, herself, and, honestly, what harm is there in another dead soldier walking? As far as Ymir is concerned, she died years ago, the very second the needle was stuck into the nape of her neck. When they made her into a beast.

Her first mission is brutal. She returns with a broken arm, and a black eye. Steam hisses from her wounds, and Historia looks – for a moment, she _looks_ at what has happened to her, and there’s an emotion which passes her face. It’s sudden. Quick. Riddled with agony. 

Then, all too soon, it’s gone, and Ymir is too slow to register what she just witnessed.

Historia turns away. She doesn’t say anything, and has the nurse attend to Ymir’s injuries. 

Not that she requires the attention. In a matter of seconds, Ymir has healed, and all she can think about is Historia’s face. 

Shattered.

**.**

**.**

**.**

‘Don’t fiddle.’

‘It’s annoying.’

‘Ymir–’ Historia sighs, giving up, because Ymir has unbuttoned the top of the shirt, allowing her neck more room. ‘Fine.’ She tries to move on. ‘They’re pushing you. Aren’t they? You’re out on the field a lot more than the other scouts. I know what they’re doing. It’s deliberate. They’re punishing you, or…’ _trying to get you killed_ , ‘… I can talk to Commander Hanji, if you like. See what she can do.’

‘I’d rather she didn’t know.’ Ymir shrugs. ‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry.’

Except it’s everything.

They _are_ doing this on purpose. Waiting until a Titan swallows her whole. Gets rid of her. It’s a fact that none of the other scouts like her. They _hate_ her. They are terrified of her, and they don’t hide that fact. 

‘Okay.’ 

Historia turns away.

‘You had best come inside, then.’

It suddenly occurs to Ymir where they are, and why she is here.

The farm is vast. Alive with nature, animals, and the air tastes fresh, and smells familiar. There is a hut, small, made out of wood, which Historia is guiding Ymir to. Ymir shoves a hand into her pocket, following blindly. She stares at the hut, beginning to feel very self-conscious.

Ymir isn’t good when it comes to _personal_. Because Historia is taking her somewhere personal. She’s taking her somewhere nobody else has invited her to, and to a place she, herself, has never had before.

When they enter, Ymir feels a rush of contentment. 

_Historia lives here._ Ymir rolls back her shoulders, sizing the place up. There’s not much to see. It’s just wood, a fireplace, a few chairs, blankets, a bed, nothing much. _She lives here_ , Ymir thinks, lowering her gaze to look at the woman. _This is her home. This–_

_This is home._

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Historia says. ‘I know it’s… pretty simple, but, shortly after my coronation, I moved here, and…’ she pauses. There’s a story to be told. She wants to tell Ymir about the children she helped, she wants to tell Ymir about the Father she killed, she wants to tell Ymir everything which she missed, and _that_ is what stuns her into place. There is _so much_ missed. 

She pauses, because Ymir is in _awe_. 

This is a home. A building, just between the two of them. A home, with a roof, and a bed, and food, and a place _just for them_. 

Safe and warm and _theirs_. 

‘It’s perfect,’ Ymir says. Because it is simple, and cheap, and there’s nothing to see, but, for Ymir, it is all she has ever wanted. And she doesn’t know how to handle this. What Historia offers her is far too much, and she doesn’t know _how she should react_. A thank you doesn’t suffice. 

Historia laughs. Nervously. She laughs nervously, colour reaching her cheeks. ‘Honestly, Ymir, it’s–it’s _not_ much. Come here, I want to show–’ and Ymir kisses her. There isn’t any appropriate way to react. The poor girl hasn’t been taught how to react when given the world, so she kisses Historia instead. She’s tired of waiting, and she’s waited _lifetimes_. 

If it were anybody else, Historia would _run_. 

But she knows Ymir better than she knows anybody else – better than _herself_. Instead, she yanks Ymir by the collar, opening her mouth, and their kiss becomes searingly hot. They breathe in harshly. Historia moans, running her fingers through Ymir’s hair, and pushing up into her body. 

She tastes of ash, something sweet, like cherries, and Historia doesn’t understand _how_ cherries, but _that_ is all she can taste, and it makes her smile, and laugh, and–

‘Oh. _Shit_. I’m sorry. Don’t–I don’t want you to cry.’

‘Shh, shh,’ Historia kisses her mouth again. They have to be quiet. They can’t say a _word_. All she wants is to kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her until their lips are bruised, and they’re close to suffocation, and they _have_ to stop. 

Ymir is cautious. She isn’t sure where to place her hands. She’s _shaking_. It’s Historia who has to _guide_ her. Whisper between each kiss – _it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all okay_ – caress her face, stroke her hair, pull her closer. She had imagined so many ways in which this might happen, but she never thought, never considered Ymir might _hesitate_. Might panic, and _gasp_ , and–

‘I need to tell you,’ she stammers, ‘That if we–’ she cuts short when Historia kisses the corner of her lips, '– _do this_ , I’ll fall apart.’

Historia closes her eyes. Cradles Ymir’s face between her hands, and places her lips to hers. ‘Stop carrying all of this _weight_. Just–give me some to carry too. Let me help you. _Let me_.’ They exhale. Historia reaches up, and when she kisses Ymir again, a hurt, soft sound passes from Ymir’s lips. She reaches for Historia’s cardigan, slowly unbuttoning it, and flinches when Historia impatiently untucks Ymir’s shirt. 

They can’t find their way to the bed. They nearly trip over each other’s boots. Ymir presses her hands into Historia’s waist, and pushes her up against the wall. They find their balance there, and it’s a harsh surface. Historia accidentally knocks her head against the wood, their teeth hit, Ymir’s lip starts to bleed, and her breath is like _fire_ across Historia’s cheek. 

A newfound urgency captures them both. Both struggle with Historia’s skirt, and Ymir eventually gives up, pushing it past her thighs, her hand smoothing up her leg. Historia gasps, clinging to Ymir frantically, pushing her mouth onto hers, still sucking on each other’s tongues. She’s already wet. Ymir swears under her breath, and starts to kiss her neck, her collarbone, adjusting themselves so she can touch her.

‘Take me–I _want_ you.’

And she means so many things, too many things for Ymir to comprehend. I want you. I _want_ you. _I want you inside me, I want you kissing me, I want your naked body on top of mine, I want you to love me, I want you forever. Forever and ever, and fuck, I want you to be_ ** _mine_** _–_

Time slows. Their kiss deepens, and Historia sinks back into the wall, dragging herhands through her hair, pulling and tugging, their kisses growing sloppy and hungry. Ymir is _everywhere_. Historia is _overwhelmed_ by her. She’s dizzy. She gives up trying to focus, trying to focus her mind on _something_ , and just lets herself _fall_. Historia lets out a cry when Ymir starts to rub against her.

Oh, God, she’s missed Ymir, missed her so _fucking_ much, it makes her head _split in half_. 

They meet each other halfway. Find each other. Historia sighs, cheek pressed to Ymir’s, and they rock together, her fingers slowly slipping in and out. They make love against the wall, this place they now call _home_ together, and it’s slow, and gentle, and _soft_ , and Historia _anchors_ herself to Ymir–terrified to pull away, terrified Ymir be taken from her; she’s _terrified_.

**.**

**.**

**.**

For a moment, Ymir thinks she’s fallen asleep.

The sheets are thin and old, and do little to keep them warm, but Ymir is a walking furnace. Being a Titan Shifter has its perks. Historia has snuggled up to her, and they’re tangled together; Ymir can feel Historia’s heart, steady beneath her palm. It’s soothing enough to help her feel drowsy.

But, then, Historia stirs. She’s been awake this whole time. 

‘You called it a nightmare.’

Ymir stiffens. She’s aware of what Historia is referring to.

Those Hellish years, trapped in a body which doesn’t belong to her. ‘Yeah,’ she whispers, feeling sick. 

‘We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want.’

‘It’s not that.’ Ymir swallows. ‘It’s just–there’s not much to talk _about_. I barely remember anything that happened. I’m not even sure if I was _aware–_ ’ she stops. Presses her nose into Historia’s hair, and stays like that for a while. 

Historia strokes her hand down Ymir’s arm, lets it rest on her waist, and reaches up to kiss her. ‘It’s okay. I understand.’

Ymir tries to smile, but it comes out lopsided and sad, as if to say _I know you wish you understood, but you can’t possibly_. Looking at her now, Historia is struck by how vulnerable Ymir really is. Just this poor girl possessing a name far too big for her. This _girl_. This poor, poor girl.

‘I’m sorry,’ Historia whispers. ‘I’m sorry I was angry.’

A grimace passes Ymir’s face, and it’s an awful sight. Ymir grabs Historia, and slams her mouth onto hers. Historia can taste salt this time. _Tears_ , trickling from her eyes, into their kiss, and her heart nearly _ruptures_. 

_Me too_ , Ymir wants to confess, but it’s no longer necessary.

**.**

**.**

**.**

‘What are you waiting for?’

Historia jumps. It’s been so quiet this morning, not even the birds have sung. She turns, watches Ymir walk over, and her hair is down, her eyes are tired, and she’s such a small thing. 

The way she holds Historia, her arms protectively around her middle, as if she were _everything_ – it would make any King or Queen lose their mind.

Historia could _die_ like this.

‘I’m not,’ she finally answers. ‘I’m watching.’

Ymir frowns. ‘You’re surveying.’

‘That’s right,’ Historia breathes. ‘I’m– _surveying_.’

Ymir raises her head. She scans the farm too, senses acute. But there is nobody in sight. They are alone, and Historia is just paranoid.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘You ordered the military to leave me alone. The only people who would be searching for me – would be my own.’

‘I know.’

‘And they won’t find me here.’

‘How do you know?’

‘… I don’t. I–’ Ymir’s arms slip away. Historia gasps. Turns to her, eyes wide, and she nearly cries at how _defeated_ Ymir has become. ‘Listen to me.’ Then, she meets her gaze, and Ymir’s eyes are ablaze, like amber; something untameable and vicious. ‘If I’m caught, if _somebody_ finds me, then they’ll kill me. If they don’t kill me, then they’ll chain me up and _do_ things to me, and–Historia, I’m _sorry_.’

‘If you’re taken away from me, then I’ll follow you.’

Ymir hesitates. ‘I can’t–’

‘You don’t get to decide on that, Ymir. I’m following you. If they take you, then they can take me. If they kill you, then they have to kill me.’

No reply. Ymir is silenced.

‘All right?’ Historia pushes, _begs_ , because she _needs_ an answer.

Until, finally: ‘All right.’

A smile reaches Historia’s lips, sad and happy and only a little forced. She brings herself onto her tiptoes, kissing Ymir firmly. The sort of routine Ymir could effortlessly grow accustomed to. Even in their graves, lost in a Heaven, if that truly existed. Where they could just _be_ together.

Like only a lover would, Ymir draws Historia back into the hut, locking out the rest of the world. They kiss again, and Historia tugs at her, kissing her almost savagely; a neglected anger seeping through. 

**.**

**.**

**.**

A fire roars in the corner, and Historia is conscious of the fact Ymir has been staring at it for too long. Historia has always appreciated fires; she likes the warmth. It was one of few privileges she had as a child. Whenever the maid arrived to build her a fire, it always meant it was a day to be happy. 

The rare gift, in which she was _allowed_ to be happy.

But Ymir is transfixed. 

Historia can’t handle this. If Ymir wants, she’ll extinguish the flames. They can forget a fire was ever there. If that’s what Ymir wants. Because she watches the fire, completely rigid, as if ready to pounce–

‘Are you afraid?’

Ymir tears her gaze away from the fire, settles on Historia. 

She is certain she’s heard that question before.

‘Not when I’m with you.’

‘But, that means you _are_ afraid.’ Historia glances at the fire. Back at Ymir. ‘Shall I put it out?’

Ymir blinks. She looks so _tired_. 

‘I don’t mind.’ 

Then, she tucks herself away into the corner of the chair, eyes still fixed to the fire.

Obviously Ymir won’t say what the problem is – if there is one. If the fire scares her, or she just _likes_ to watch the flames. Historia sighs, watching her. The military uniform doesn’t suit such a sweet person.

She comes over, and Ymir looks up at her sharply when Historia sits across her lap. Then, without warning, Historia kisses her hard, parting Ymir’s lips with her tongue. She kisses her urgently, passionately, softly moaning in between. Ymir can’t _breathe_. She’s drowning in her, being driven _mad_ by her, and her whole body _screams_ out, wanting Historia closer.

All too suddenly they stop. ‘Historia,’ Ymir whispers.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Me too.’

Historia wants to stay here, like this, forever. Let them hide in their hut on the farm, away from everybody else. But the military will eventually drag Ymir back out into Titan territory again, and the Queen’s presence will be requested elsewhere. There will be many days when they’ll _have_ to be apart.

But, for now, Historia will take this. 

Every second, every moment, every _beat_.

When she draws Ymir towards her, she’s certain _death_ couldn’t even pull them apart.

**.**

**.**

**.**

‘Marry me?’

Ymir doesn’t know if she’s heard correctly.

The 3D Manoeuvre Gear is being difficult. Historia walks towards her, and helps reposition the straps properly. 

There’s a long, unsettled silence between them. Ymir is going through her head what she thinks she heard, but she’s not entirely sure, and then she looks at Historia, because _no_ , surely not.

‘What’s that?’

Historia’s eyes are bright. Beautiful. She fiddles with the cuff of her sleeve. Then she distracts herself, neatening out Ymir’s collar. ‘I just wanted to ask if you would–’ she looks at her, and Ymir can tell she’s anxious, ‘– _marry me_.’

In about ten minutes, Ymir will be leaving the Wall, and forced to obey orders from a commanding officer who loathes her very existence. In about ten minutes, Ymir will have to turn away, and pretend the Queen was never hers to begin with. Ten minutes. Already, the seconds are being counted.

That is a life with Historia. Where each second, each _moment_ , is so fucking precious, that it _counts_. One of them may be dead tomorrow, and they both know it. A fact they’ve lived with since they first laid eyes on each other. Ymir tries; she tries to think of a life in which Historia did not fulfil it and–

Whatever life that is, it does not exist. Historia _is_ that life.

Historia is _her_ life. Ymir can’t recall a time when she wasn’t.

When Ymir smiles, she feels like the happiest girl on earth. She kisses her, loves her, worships her, would follow anywhere, and whispers: 

‘I think I already have.’

**Author's Note:**

> I might write a series of oneshots like these. We shall see.  
> Of course, the finale broke my fucking heart. I've read the manga, so I knew what was coming, but I wasn't prepared at all. I refuse to believe these two idiots don't have their happy ever after.


End file.
